The Dísir
by DopamineandDucks
Summary: Loki thinks he is unfairly blamed for a lot of mishaps that happen in the Realms. This time, though, the fault is definitely his. Pre-Thor, Canon divergence


Were it not for the peculiar black blade, the cobwebbed and brittle sword Loki had been asked to examine would have been the dullest relic Thor brought back from one of his silly jaunts. It was no spectacular work of craftsmanship—maybe it would have sufficed as a decent blade in its heyday, but beyond the color of steel (was it steel?), it looked no different from the other abandoned weaponry left lying around in draugr tombs. Why Thor chose to bring this back as his prize, Loki hadn't the foggiest.

Still, like a good brother (more like insatiable scholar), Loki conceded to inspecting the sword. Admittedly, he was intrigued by the black blade. Asgard had a particular design that was incorporated into everything: simple, streamline, perhaps an ornament or two depending upon the bearer's rank, natural materials (a politically correct term for "not enchanted"), and no deviations. Variations naturally occurred over history as finer details of the preferred style changed, but the overall concept was the same: no fuss, just practicality.

This sword was consistent with Asgardian design from approximately 20,000 years ago, when smithies got fancy with cross-guards and occasionally fashioned them to look like fangs flanking the blade. However according to Loki's knowledge, blades were still crafted from silver steel. He considered that perhaps it was of Niflheim make, considering its natural-born residents preferred a more eerie style than other realms. This theory was immediately rejected because it possessed no enchantments; a smithing requirement for any craft forged in the underworld. It was also clearly Asgardian in design.

It couldn't have belonged to a noble, dignitary, or one of Loki's ancestors given that it lacked jewels or any indication of precious settings.

He took the blade in his hands and ran his fingers down the blade. To his surprise, a knick in the blade slivered his finger. He winced from surprise rather than pain. The blade was so ancient Loki assumed it wouldn't have been able to cut butter let alone his callused finger.

He brought the hilt close to his face, his shrewd eyes meticulously scanning for any indication of ownership. An irregularity in how the dust clung to the blade just beneath the hilt captured his attention. Brow creasing, he gently blew air onto the abnormality and wiped the grime away with his thumb, causing blood from his thumb to smear on the blade.

A pale blue light glowed beneath the residual dust. It was so dim, Loki nearly missed it. With intense intrigue suddenly biting at his neck, he grabbed a fine cloth from his desk and wiped the rest of the dirt away.

Nothing was there.

Brow creased, he sunk his incisor into the wound on his thumb to draw fresh blood and wiped it along the top of the blade. Again, a pale light glowed, but stronger this time. Still, there was no clear reason why it glowed.

He set the blade back down on the desk and ripped through the top drawer for his dagger. Quickly, he dragged the knifepoint down the pad of his thumb until a liberal amount of blood began to flow, then pressed it against the spot of the blade that glowed. His thumb burned in protest, but he didn't pull it away until runnels of blood dripped.

What he saw surprised him.

An old rune, so ancient that he couldn't immediately identify it, became pronounced on the blade. It was blacker than the steel and seemed to stare back at him.

How interesting.

Though he couldn't read the rune, he knew he had seen it before. Its familiarity was just beyond the reach of his mind. He sat back in his chair, holding the blade up to the flickering torchlight of his study. His brow creased deeper as he pensively racked his brain.

After he had given himself ample time to figure it out on his own, he gingerly set the sword down on his desk and consulted his bookcases. When none of the titles jumped out at him as a possible lead, he waved his arm and slipped through the hole that opened for him. When he stepped back out, he was in the library.

He nodded respectfully (and maybe even fondly) to the librarian, a decrepit old thing who served more as a wrinkled adornment than a person of function, and strolled into the depths. He turned up nothing in the aisles containing books and scrolls of linguistics. Heaving a resigned sigh, he turned to the history section: a large, two-storied room the size of his and Thor's chambers comprised of stacks in organized aisles for more relevant titles, and labyrinthine mazes for the more obscure, ancient texts.

Suppressing a groan, he dove in.

He read enough fiction to hope this was when he felt the mysterious "pull" to a specific section of the room that would lead him to the correct tome. But real life was disenchanting and he spent hours combing the stacks. Were it not for his patience (or persistence, to be more accurate), he would have abandoned his quest long ago. However, Loki was with knowledge how Thor was with adventure, and was tenacious until the mystery was solved.

His eyes were sore from reading, and his face and white shirt were filthy from the layers of dust built up on the shelves of the neglected section of the history room. His stomach growled—it had been hours since he had eaten, and despite what his trim physique would suggest, Loki didn't like to miss meals.

About finished for the night, he pulled a book of the shelf and resolved it would be the last one for the evening. It was a heavy book with soiled, faded pages that threatened to crumble to bits if not treated carefully. Luckily, Loki was tender with the written word and new exactly how to care for them.

He leaned against a bookshelf, gently guiding the brittle pages from one cover to the other. His stomach growled loudly, followed by a sudden spike in anger due to his fasting. Frustrated and starving, he went to slam the book shut when an illustration captured his eye. He reopened the book (luckily, he closed it on his thumb so he was able to find the page again) and studied the picture.

His eyes darted over the accompanying text, translating the language as best as he could as he went.

He paused in translation, not sure if he understood the text correctly. He reread it again, knitting his brow in confusion. It couldn't have been correct. There was no way he translated that correctly. He puzzled over the words, but his gut was confident. Slowly, he accepted the information and the ostensible ownership of the sword.

A small smirk curled on his lips.

How interesting indeed.


End file.
